Glowstick
by Pipidae
Summary: He wipes water from his cheek and gives his best glare. It is somewhat ruined by the corners of his mouth reaching tentatively for his ears.


**G l o w S t i c k**

...

Arthur's back is pressed against the concrete wall, digging as deep into cement stubble as it can just to escape. He is soaked through with rainwater. Some of it, he is sure, is too salty to be quite right. His nose is smashed against the argyle sleeves of his least favorite sweater, breathing in rotten wood and cigarette smoke left behind over years of sitting untouched in his dresser. The smell is neither comfortable nor pleasant, but it suits him all the same.

The thick splashing of sneakered feet in deep puddles alerts him to an approaching unknown. The footsteps cease, and he opens his eyes blearily to be met with familiar torn blue jeans. He gawks at the knobby knees peeking from behind the ripped denim, refusing to look much further. He does not want to see that face.

"Hey, Artie." The speaker's voice is vibrant and encouraging. It is full of hope and life and it is the last thing Arthur wants to hear. He reburies his face in sodden wool. _Please go away._

Alfred does not take the hint. He sits down, too, in the middle of the sidewalk, facing Arthur. He is quiet, though, and Arthur can pretend he does not exist, if he wishes. And he does wish.

They sit in silence for what could have been years. Alfred is soaking in water and Arthur as fast as he can. He moves at the speed of light. Arthur wants only for time to stop. They collide head on.

And so, a mere millennium later, time returns to its usual snail pace. Arthur's head snaps up. He has pasted a smile on his face, brighter that Alfred's, but still dulling in comparison.

"Hello, Alfred. I'm fine; don't worry about me." The tone is cheerful, but nearly mechanical, and Alfred is not fooled. He can still see the glue dripping from the edges. He still refuses to leave, instead reaching out one water-wrinkled finger and pressing it gently to his companion's forehead. Arthur's eyes cross each other trying to follow. The finger stays for a while longer before Arthur becomes confused and annoyed and slaps it away. Alfred laughs.

"It not the end of the world, you know," he says.

Arthur knits his eyebrows together. "Why are you still here?" he asks.

Alfred is still again. Arthur returns his head to its knit cradle.

He has begun to enjoy his near-solitude when Alfred again finds his voice. "You looked a little lonely." Again, his pink finger stretches toward Arthur's forehead, and again it is roughly shoved aside.

"I _want _to be alone," Arthur snarls.

Alfred replaces his pestering with a pensive look before scampering away. There is no warning. Arthur watches after his flying feet. Then his chin brushes softly against the unraveling edge of his sweater, weighed down by rainwater and nostalgia. His eyes shut. He is nearly asleep, there on a dirty sidewalk in the freezing rain. Time moves backward.

But Alfred returns and, squatting down, shoves something in his face. Arthur starts wildly in surprise. He rubs at his eyes, trying to understand just what Alfred is doing.

"It's a glow stick." Alfred waves a small plastic tube in the air mercilessly before continuing. "See, it's like this, Artie. People don't live their lives all bright and shiny." He places the glow stick in Arthur's hands and squeezes gently. "Sometimes, you have to break a little first to really see the light." Alfred leads, and together they snap the thin barrier inside. The glow stick slowly blushes absinthe.

Arthur lifts his head fully and stares between the bright green and the equally bright blue beside it. He is dumbfounded.

He does not want to speak.

He does anyway.

"That's the most ridiculous analogy you've ever made." He wipes water from his cheek and gives his best glare. It is somewhat ruined by the corners of his mouth reaching tentatively for his ears.

Alfred grins, stands up, and extends a hand downward. "Come on, Mr. Glow Stick. Let's see that light."

Arthur does not want to move.

He does anyway.

Hesitantly, he reaches up and takes the proffered hand. Alfred drops the glow stick semaphore unceremoniously to the ground and they whirl away on new-life feet.

* * *

><p>Meant as a friendship, but I'm sure half of you had your slash goggles on anyway. (;<br>Anyway, I promised myself months ago I would never write Hetalia. I lied, apparently.  
>I don't know what happened to Arthur, either. I just needed an excuse to practice writing. -flails-<p> 


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